


amas veritas

by echo1317



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Magic, Gen, M/M, Mentions of Canon Abuse and Violence, mentions of drug use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-08
Updated: 2016-06-08
Packaged: 2018-07-13 02:30:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7134956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/echo1317/pseuds/echo1317
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everyone knows that the house at the end of Trumbull has magic.</p><p>A reimagining of seasons 1-5, in a world where the mysterious Milkovich matriarch was a modern middle-of-the-city witch who passed the tricks of the trade in to her two youngest children. While their world falls down around them, Mandy seeks solace in the family gift while Mickey rejects the notion that he is anything other than Terry Milkovich’s son. This is not a crash course in crippling power; it's series of snapshots into the way that taking the long way around doesn't mean you end up where you started, and that all roads lead home.</p><p>(or: The Practical Magic AU No One Asked For)</p>
            </blockquote>





	amas veritas

**Author's Note:**

> For Round 5 of the Shameless Big Bang. Thank you so much to my artist, [mckmlkvch](http://mckmlkvch.tumblr.com), Kerri, who made a fantastic graphic for this fic that can be found on tumblr. She is incredibly kind and wonderfully talented, and it was such a great time working with her!
> 
> There's a lot in here that is borrowed shamelessly (ha) from Practical Magic, both the book and movie, that it's based on, as well as from my own practice and lifestyle. Little pieces of my soul are scattered throughout, so please be gentle. It's unbeta'd except the editing that I did myself, so I apologize in advance for any and all glaring errors, as well as the intentional page breaks. I use so. Many. Page breaks. It also follows Shameless canon up to the end of Season 5, when the show was mysteriously cancelled and has not had any more seasons after that. Nope. Not even one.
> 
> This is the first fic that I've posted since the good old days of FF.net, and let me tell you, it has been an experience. I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I've loved writing it.

**amas veritas**

**i.**

 

Everyone knows that the house at the end of Trumbull has magic.

 

No one is quite sure when it started. Maybe it was built into the foundations, maybe it moved in when that woman did, though she wasn't quite a woman then, thirteen years old with a baby on her hip and another growing in her belly. It is something that has been so long that it isn't questioned anymore; it just _is_.

You can tell by the growth in the garden, so luscious and green through the sticky summers and harsh winters that it can't be anything but supernatural. _If you stand under the lilacs and think of your true love, they're sure to notice you the next day,_ they say. But don't pluck any of the peppermint spilled over the fence. That'll get you cursed. There are chimes in the windows, those are for happiness. Each entry way is guarded by blue glass eyes, even the mirrors. Not everyone understands. They don't need to.

There is the cat, of course, that begins lingering on the property just after the family’s first season there. She’s just a little thing, mangy and grey, that curls up in the children’s cribs and keeps careful watch while they sleep. In the daylight hours, she can often be seen trotting along after the Milkovich matriarch, content to be whispered softly to and called _so pretty_ though the name hardly suits her. When you’re walking past on the sweet, sweltering days of summer, you can sometimes hear the woman asking, _isn’t the kitty just so pretty?_ , and the children chanting back, _so pretty, so pretty_. If you’re lucky, the cat will come when you call that name, too. _Sopretty, Sopretty_. Keep yourself on your toes, though, if she only blinks and stares back at you from the planter box under the windowsill. She’s a better judge of character than most.

In the windows, some nights, you can see a candle flicker long after the house has gone quiet. It burns like a beacon, guiding those who have wandered off the path to a place full of souls long since lost.

 

When Terry Milkovich is out running guns or selling smack, his wife deals spells out of the back door. People whisper that all you have to do is tap the wind chime made of old spoons and sea glass that lives on the eaves, knock your fingernails three times against the windowpane and count to seven, and there she'll be, beckoning you to come forward with whatever you have to offer. She'll cast anything for the right price, but prices may vary. Bring her cash, bring her coins. Bring her a thread from your child's favorite teddy bear or a lock of hair from the only girl you've ever loved. She collects these things, too.

Spill your woes upon her table and the Trumbull witch will sweep them into a sachet of herbs that you must keep under your pillow for three days before burying it in your backyard or emptying it into the river. To remedy addiction, she'll send you home with a live minnow to slip into your husband's tequila when he's not looking. To attract the lustful gaze of the corner shop girl, she'll tell you to shove a pin through the heart of one of her doves while you picture that girl's mouth whispering your name. She has yet to turn anyone away. Might as well try your luck while you can.

But be careful, everyone says. Her husband has a bad temper. He doesn't believe. And be wary of the children, they say. Just the two little ones, with their mother's magic in their blood. The older one, the little boy, he has power spilling from his fingertips. The girl has an eye that sees to the core of you and beyond. Don't let her look too long.

Sometimes the children hide around the corner while their mother tends to her clients, whispering to each other as she works. One day, this will be their responsibility. One day, they will be the village witches.

 

It's a little disconcerting, sometimes, to see the children together. They have the same dark hair, the same blue eyes as their mother, and even though they're a year apart, people always mistake them for twins. It's not just their appearance that does it, it's something about the way they move, the way that they look at each other and communicate without a word, but not in the way that siblings usually do. Even their half-brothers know to be cautious with them.

It's not that anyone is afraid of the children. It's just that- well, they're different. Not the kind that the other children invite to play on the playground. _Milkoviches. Witches_. Rough around the edges, a little wild. They have fought tooth and nail for everything that they have, and it shows in their wide eyes and feral smiles. Where others live their lives, these Milkoviches, they _survive_.

 

For now, the little ones are content to learn from their mother. She teaches them how to help others and help themselves. _Always have rosemary growing by the garden gate_ , she tells them. _Plant lavender for luck_. These things become common knowledge, as surely as they know that August is a season of reveals and that a goodbye on a bridge is forever. All of it makes sense, if only to them.

 

Mickey is at his best in the garden, surrounded by all things green and alive. Herbs, flowers, trees, it all thrives under his touch. Everywhere he goes, the flora flourishes. From the time he could toddle out the door and down the front porch steps, he has found his way to the garden, always gentle as he tends his plants, knowing just which stems to pluck from their stalks for the best results. His hands, no matter how many times he washes with the black soap his mother makes in the kitchen at midnight during full moons, never lose their faint green tinge.

The herbs that Mickey harvests go straight to the oven to dry, and then into their respective jars, labeled with his own neat, careful scrawl, as soon as he learns his letters. Coffee filters and colored string make for good sachets, for a wee one who can't quite work a needle yet. Basil for protection, mint for prosperity, thyme for courage. His father never takes these charms, but, his mother says, that doesn't mean that they don't work.

Faith is very important to their craft, Mickey finds. None of it matters if you can't let yourself believe. Hope, even here, can be hard to kill.

 

Mandy has an affinity for empathy, and fortunes. Even so young, she feels things deeply, but not for herself. She hurts for people, and wishes that she could take their hurt from them. She meets people, and from that knows their souls, past, present, and future. Others call this having good instincts, or a gut feeling, but her mother calls it a gift. This is the burden of being of their bloodline; witches will always know things that they shouldn't, that they wish they hadn't known, not now, and not ever.

Still, Mandy traces runes in the dirt with her fingers at recess while her brother talks sweetly to the dandelions growing at the edge of the playground. When no one's looking, she shuffles through her mother's battered tarot cards. Maybe it is scary every once and awhile, but knowing is better than not knowing, she thinks. Every time. She would always much rather _know_. She studies the cards until she's memorized their pictures, knows them by heart the way that she knows the people she loves.

Her mother teaches her how to hold these things close. It is most important to cherish the ability to understand so much that others cannot. It is, she learns, a family talent.

Their mother says, _you will get the answers you ask for._ This is the advice that they take to heart. _Fall in love whenever you can_. This is a harder lesson to learn.

 

Something easy that the children learn from their mother is that habits die more than hard, both old and new.

 

One of the too many nights that Terry is away and the older boys are running around town and their mother is too far gone to pay them much attention, Mandy finds Mickey in the backyard working a spell she's never seen before.

"It's for true love," Mickey lisps at her, a whisper in the dark when there's no one around to hear them.

She watches him carefully pick through the hoard he's brought out from their mother's cabinet- cloves, cinnamon, valerian, wormwood. Those go in one of the two tiny holes he's dug at the edge of the fence. "But you don't wanna fall in love."

"S'actly." He fills the other hole- elderflower, poppy seed, red pepper flakes. "I got a plan."

"Liar." Mandy isn't deterred when he shoves her, one handed, away from his work. She just gets on her tiptoes and peers into the holes over his shoulder as he kneels. 

"Fuck off," he spits, nine years of righteous rage already bubbling beneath his skin. "Gotta be... ginger, right?" He adds a jasmine bud, still closed and sweet, into each of the holes. "Lotsa freckles. Tall as shit. Fuckin'- alien lookin' or somethin'."

"There aren't a lot of ginger girls around," Mandy reminds him. She watches him add more buds into the holes, muttering to himself all the while. The cat twines around Mickey’s ankles, purring gently and flicking her tail with every flower that falls. “What else?”

“Gotta be nice,” Mickey mutters, a small frown furrowing his brow. “Like, stupid nice. Gotta be able to make me laugh, too. Make fuckin’ perfect pancakes. Always gotta come back to me, no matter what.” He takes a moment. Considers carefully. “And know me better than anybody else. Ever.”

Mandy pouts, laying herself down in the grass next to him. “I know you best, though.”

Mickey shrugs. “That’s the point. Ain’t no girls anywhere around here like that. And if she doesn’t exist, I never have to fall in love.”

Sopretty sits between them and stares at the space between the two holes, her ears twitching as though she’s taking every word Mickey says to heart.

 

See, those Milkoviches, they know what love does to you. And while Mandy thinks that love would be the best thing to be destroyed by, Mickey would rather not take those chances.

 

The Trumbull witch keeps mostly to herself. She sells her spells, she loves her children, she cares for the cat who her children have grown so fond of. She feeds her bad habits just as much as she feeds her family. Addiction is a hard thing to escape even in the best of situations, even for the best of people. Even with magic on your side.

 

It's sudden. Quiet. The way most overdoses are. At least it wasn't the children who found her, the neighbors whisper. At least there's that.

People talk, after she dies, as people are wont to do. _What will happen to the children? What will we do now that she isn't here to give us what we need?_ They move on quickly, though, too preoccupied with their own tragedies to tend to. Lives happen, lives end, and the life of a witch is no different. Not here.

 

After her funeral, Terry takes the time to smash every blue amulet she had hung in an effort to make their house a home before he takes off with his brothers and his eldest sons. The shards litter the floor like shattered pieces of a fallen sky, when Mickey tries to sweep them up. When that's done, he throws away her wind chimes as he throws away any part of himself that was once his mother's son. Let the jars in the front yard stay buried. He will never have to look at any of it again.

And Mandy, she steals away and hides what she can of her mother's books, her bottles, her spells. One day, she knows, they will be useful to her. To both of them. She can only hope that one day her brother will know it, too.

 

“What do we do now?” Mandy whispers, tucked in close to her brother’s side in the middle of the night, Sopretty purring softly at their feet. This is where she knows she belongs, the only place she belongs anymore: at his side, wherever he is. 

Mickey barely stirs, but she knows he’s awake, that he hasn’t slept tonight at all. “Mick. What do we do?”

“Go the fuck to sleep.” Mickey kicks her sharply beneath the covers. “And get the fuck outta my room.”

“Fuck you,” Mandy says, but she goes anyway. She thinks she can hear him cry, but the walls are too thick for that. It would hurt too much, anyway, if she could. 

Mandy imagines her own walls going up, becoming as solid as those that separate her from Mickey, and the ground that separates her from her mother. Everything goes quiet, and that’s when she knows she’s really, truly alone.

 

The rosemary by the garden gate withers. The lilacs die, slow and sick and sad. The neighborhood forgets that there was ever any magic in the house at the end of Trumbull. 

 

**ii.**

 

Mickey Milkovich does not remember his mother.

Well, that's not entirely true. He remembers that she was soft-spoken, when she needed to be. She liked stories and flowers and children. He remembers that her hair was dark, like Mandy's, soft like the dresses she wore, and always long. He remembers she smelled warm and sweet, and was sometimes hard to hug because she was so thin and full of bones but that never stopped him. And she liked to sing, sometimes. Other times she liked to snort the shit their dad brought home, but it never made her mean the way it did other people. She was always kind, to a fault. He remembers that one day, she set him down, and never picked him back up. She left, and didn't come back.

Mickey remembers his father not crying at her funeral. Then Mickey tries not to remember her anymore. 

He has grown up, for better or for worse, his father’s son. That’s that. Learn to live with it. What else is he supposed to do?

 

When he tries to remember their magic, well, that's when things get a little fuzzy. Of everything that he has purged from his memory, some things never really leave him. Even after so many years living with condemning their craft, he can't quite shake old knowledge.

A ring around the moon puts a rock in his gut. He keeps an eye out for trouble, twice as vigilant as usual on those nights, just in case. When a broom falls across the floor, he clears the living room of anything illegal or incriminating. Better safe than sorry, with the prospect of company coming. One stray black dog barking at him under the train is no big deal. Two make him take pause from his target practice to call his brothers and make sure none of them are dead.

And everywhere he goes, green things still thrive. The garden might be gone, but vines still creep their way along the back of the house, covering the porch railings until you can’t see the beams beneath. No other house on the block boasts weeds as tall as the Milkovich’s, which sprout dandelions even during the coldest weeks of winter. There’s a patch of lilacs along the fence that Mickey has never been able to get rid of. He chalks it up to the world being a strange fucking place, and tries to let it go. 

What he can’t make excuses for, though, are the plants that he knows by heart. Why or how there’s parsley growing under the fucking overpass, he’ll never know, but there it is, and he plucks a sprig of it whenever he’s walking past. He’s insanely attracted to the smell of lemongrass. Sometimes he still has the unsettling urge to tend to the rosemary out front, even though it hasn’t been there for years. Lavender makes his heart swell.

And Sopretty sleeps in his bed, every night without fail. On good nights, she curls up under the sheets next to his feet; on bad nights, she lets him bury his face in her soft fur while she purrs on his pillow. And Mickey knows about things like familiars, but never put much stock in them, even when he still believed. Whatever else she is, that cat is family to him as much as anyone else the house. She, at least, is a reminder that he isn’t so desperate to shake.

 

Mandy remembers her mother, but never as much as she wishes she did. 

She memorizes information, writes it down to pour over when she can't sleep, files it away for future reference. Everything that she does to keep that memory alive is done secretly, hidden away in purple binders marked _English_ and boxes under loose floorboards beneath her bed. Terry has always been scared shitless of it; God knows what he would do if he knew these things were still happening under his roof. It hurts Mickey too much for her to share it with him. It hurts her just as much to be alone with it.

Though Mandy has never quite gotten the hang of boxing out the future, she has learned to shut down enough of her empathy that it doesn’t suffocate her anymore, a necessary evil, living where she does and with whom she lives. It’s harder to do than she expects; by the time she recognizes it as working, she misses being that in tune with other people. Part of her has never stopped wanting to know that she is not alone, has never stopped wanting other people to know that they are not alone, either.

She’s always figured that there’s a connection to be made, there, in the connection she has with Mickey, though she’s never been able to put her finger on what it was. When they were small, it was stronger, perhaps something to do with their mother still around, or with Mickey having yet to reject his magic. Even as Mandy tries to put a cap on these feelings that are not her own, she still finds that her brother is always in the back of her mind, his consciousness throbbing like a separate pulse. It’s never as clear as it used to be, but she knows when he’s safe and she knows when he’s not. And when he really _feels_ things, she tastes it in the back of her mouth like copper.

 

It’s hard not to be bitter that her brother won’t touch their magic anymore. He’s always been quicker at picking these things up. Between his natural talent and her know-how, Mandy just _knows_ that they’d be unstoppable. If he would just give it another chance, they could do something good for themselves. They could change their whole lives. 

 

It’s been years, the first time Mandy brings up their mother to him. She hopes, faintly, that time will have healed the worst of his wounds, the way she’s let it do for her. They’re not close, not the way they used to be, but at least they try to take care of each other. _Trying_ is what means the most to her; as long as they’re trying, it means they’re ok. Mandy reasons that this, scratching at scabs for whatever relief it might bring, is her way of taking care of him. 

“What’s that thing that mom used to say about August?” She asks, the last weekend of July, when even though it’s been summer, nothing will feel as heavy as the coming week. “You’re supposed to find shit out, right? Whether you ask or not?”

Mickey belches loudly, his thumbs working fast on the video game controller, distracted from her question by the game and distracted from the game by Sopretty trying to paw her way into his lap. “Fuck if I know.”

“What about the window thing?” She’s baiting him now. This is something she knows by heart; mint on the windowsill in August brings you truths, for better or worse. She scoops Sopretty up and cradles her against her chest sweetly. The old girl has always been more Mickey’s pet than Mandy’s, but she’s got a soft spot for the cat anyway, and the cat for her. 

“Hey, you wanna shut the fuck up and let me play my fuckin’ game?” Mickey snaps, the only response Mandy ever imagined him giving, but it stings just the same. “Jesus. Why you gotta bring that shit up for? Who gives a shit.”

She pushes away the hurt, kicks Mickey in the shin, and drops the cat to steal the controller away while he howls. He lets her finish his game anyway. Sopretty slinks onto his lap and digs her claws into his thigh when she kneads her paws against him, and Mandy feels just a little bit better.

 

So Mandy contents herself with making charms to ensure Mickey gets out of juvie early for good behavior. When people ask, which they don’t often do, she never bothers saying how good it’ll be to have him home again, just that at least there’ll be better company than who she has now, though her other brothers aren’t the worst she can imagine. It’s not like _home_ means _safe_ , but when he’s close, she can keep an eye on him, keep putting oak leaves in his coat pockets and sewing messy runes into the tags of his shirt. _Safe_ , for Mandy, means _together_.

In the meantime, she leaves wards on her door to hide herself from prying eyes and harmful hands, though wards have never been her strong suit. For every cigarette she burns through, she uses the smoke to trace sigils in the air. She whispers good luck into every wind that blows, and trusts that when Sopretty hisses at strangers who come into their home, she should turn them right back out.

And she tries- she tries so fucking _hard_ \- to keep every single one of her goddamn spells positive. It's not hard to tell that she’s got no creed or any of that new age spiritual shit, but she doesn’t do jinxes, and she does _not_ curse. If Mandy needs to hurt someone, she does it with her bare hands. She would much rather their blood be there than anywhere near her magic. 

 

In the end, though, love is what so often binds them together, the little witches who lost their way. They love the same, all in or not even a bit, rarely but deeply. Despite promises made to their mother, there is no room in either of their hearts to fall in love with anyone, even themselves. Given everything that they’ve been through, they are more than content with being alone or with each other. 

Each other is all they've ever had. All that they've ever needed. And then they had to get mixed up with those fucking Gallaghers. 

 

Those fucking Gallaghers. Once they've touched your life, you can never look away and never look back. If the world was a better place, it might be that they could be likened to a comet. In the world that they live in, it’s more accurate to compare them to a fucking train wreck. 

 

Mickey passes Mandy his lit cigarette when she walks up to join him on the front stairs, watching her boyfriend until he rounds the corner on his way home. Sopretty sits in the windowbox and flicks her tail at the red head’s retreating form, blinking irritably after the boy. “Stuff goin’ ok with him?”

“Yeah,” She sighs on an exhale. “He’s… not like I thought he was, I guess. He’s really nice to me.”

Mickey snorts, taking his cigarette back. “Didn’t ask for a heart to heart.”

Mandy just rolls her eyes. “It’s not like I’m tellin’ you how much I’m in love with him or anything.”

“Are you?” He nudges her ribs just this side of playfully. “In love with him?”

Now it’s her turn tell him, “Shut the fuck up, asswipe, you don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He just shrugs. “Fuckin’ alien lookin’ motherfucker, if you ask me. Don’t know what the fuck you see in him.”

“It’s none of your business, anyway.” Mandy swipes a new cigarette from the pack between them.

“So it’s only my business when you want me to beat the shit out of him, huh?” Mickey lights it for her with his own. “I see how it is.”

Out of old habit, Mandy takes her free hand and runs her fingers through Mickey’s hair, scratching across his scalp with her nails not quite gently. “Asshole.”

“Douchebag.” Mickey leans into her touch, letting his eyes close for a quick moment. Then the moment is over, and he gets to his feet, and goes inside. Over his shoulder, he calls, “Don’t come cryin’ to me when he fucks you up.” 

 

For all that Mandy thinks she’s in love with Ian, it’s Lip who really ends up fucking her over. Brilliant, tortured, fuckstick of a human being Lip. He’s good to her, if not in the way Ian has always been, then in his own way. And he doesn’t love her.

Which, she thinks, is fine for now. Her subtle spells come in handy lately, simple sachets of cloves, cinnamon, valerian, wormwood. She hides them in his pillowcase, leaves lotus root in his pockets, lights a pink candle with his name carved in it and lets it melt down to the little glass holder in the shape of a heart. 

And even- even if she’s not powerful enough, she just can’t bring herself to stop trying. It might very well be that when it’s not there, it’s not there, but Mandy has always believed in their magic the way she has seen others believe in God. Maybe it’s not there all the time, but when you need it- when you really need it- it’ll come through for you. It just has to, she thinks. It just has to come through. 

 

Mandy, at least, knows how easy love can be to fall into. Mandy could see Ian coming from a mile away. Mickey, though- he never fucking knew what hit him.

 

**iii.**

 

It’s summer again. The end of August. Everything always comes to a head in August. 

Mandy Milkovich finds that she has come to terms with too many truths, spilled the mint all over the windowsill, but with blood on the moon every night since the start of the season, she knows that there are reveals yet to come. Her heart has been heavy, grieved, for no reason she can discern, which makes her think that perhaps it’s not her hurt that she’s feeling. The blood on her hands is not anything that she is sorry for, so it can’t possibly be that; Lip is another story altogether, and those feelings she can pick out and away from the raw, exposed anguish that digs at her during her waking hours. Whatever it is, she’s forcing it as far away from herself as possible. Now is not the time for such things. 

When August is over, it occurs to Mandy that she hasn’t seen Mickey in a while, even though he’s not back in juvie, as far as she knows. She chalks it up to August, and summer, and too many truths much too close together.

 

The thing about December is that it’s almost as long as August, but everything happens much faster. Mickey knocked up that whore. Mickey’s engaged. Mickey’s married. And Ian is screaming about the guy that he loves and the guy that he was fucking and Mickey is trying not to look at him and suddenly it’s so easy to put the pieces together that Mandy is more than shocked that she didn’t know before it was all spelled out for her. Her best friend, her brother, her talent for seeing the things that people try so hard to hide- one way or another, she should have _known_. As much as she blames the both of them for her ignorance, she knows that she may never be able to forgive herself for it, too.

Instead of going home from the wedding with Lip, like she had planned, or Kenyatta, like _he_ had planned, Mandy ends up going home alone. It feels worse than it should. This whole thing feels worse than it should.

And then, hours after she’s gone to bed in a house meant to be empty, a body slams against Mandy’s locked door, and suddenly it seems as though things could be just as bad as she believes that they are. 

“Mandy!” It’s a conscious effort to make her heart slow down when she realizes it’s just Mickey. “Open the fuck up, bitch, I’m fuckin’ fallin’ over out here.”

“What the fuck do you want?” Part of her anger is fueled by the hour, the rest is the righteous fury of someone who has been lied to, had secrets kept from them, seen their best friend hurt at the hands of their family. Maybe something is wrong for Mickey, too, but for now, all she knows is wrath. “Shouldn’t you be fucking your new wife?”

“Fuck off.” Mickey pushes past her and throws himself into her bed, only half dressed, missing a shoe, reeking of every kind of alcohol Mandy has ever smelled. “M’tired. Long fuckin’ day.”

Mandy watches the way he nuzzles into her pillow, deflating as if the whole world has fallen down on him. That itch, that suffering that’s been weighing on her, it makes sense now. So many things make sense now.

“Shove over.” The bed is small, but they’ll both fit. She squirms her way back onto her mattress, tucking herself under the blankets facing the wall. Just as she feels her eyes getting heavy, she hears the telltale sound of a claws on the door, and Sopretty’s pitiful wails on the other side. 

Knowing that the cat won’t leave until she’s let her in, Mandy heaves herself up again and opens the door wide enough for Sopretty to slip in and jump up to lay on Mickey’s back. She rolls her eyes and curls up where she was before, the sound of the cat purring like a familiar lullaby on a stormy night.

She’s almost asleep when she hears Mickey mumble, “Y’ever miss mom?” 

There’s a beat where neither of them speaks. Mandy is suddenly wide awake. 

“I miss mom,” Mickey whispers, as if the darkness will swallow his words before they can be heard. “Sometimes.” It’s hard not to roll over, to offer comfort he won’t accept. It’s harder still when he amends, “All the time.”

Mandy doesn’t know how they got here, but here they are. She doesn’t know where they go from here, either, but they’ll get there. It’s going to be a long winter.

 

Black soap makes you clean. Lavender, eucalyptus, basil, lemon. Ash. It’s about the only thing Mandy has ever known to work for things like this. If you can call it working. She mixes up a batch as a late wedding present for Mickey.

 

“Hey.” 

For the second time in too short a period, Mandy wakes up to her brother’s voice, though this time his hand is gently squeezing her arm instead of pounding on her door. It’s the first time she can remember seeing him touch anyone since his wedding. 

“Hey, get your lazy ass up,” Mickey sniffs, swiping the back of his hand under his nose. That’s his tell, if she didn’t know he was upset already. “We’re goin’ to the river.”

His voice shakes, but it’s been a long time since she’s heard him sound so certain of anything. Mandy rubs her eyes and says, “let me get dressed.”

 

They drive an hour and a half south-west before they hit a place to park. It’s another half an hour of walking until they can hear the rush. Mandy’s shoes are caked with mud; her jacket is hardly enough to keep out the chill, but it’s all she had time to grab before Mickey was pushing her out the door and into a car she’s never seen before. Fifteen more minutes until they can see the water from the bank.

She doesn't know what he’s looking for, but she’s pretty sure he finds it in the river.

Mickey barely takes the time to slip out of his sneakers, his jacket, his jeans. Then he’s wading in until he’s waist deep. He closes his eyes, holding his arms out so that just the tips of his fingers skim the surface. 

He looks peaceful. So much so that it only takes a minute of watching him, another two to take off her shoes, before she joins him. A minute more and she realizes it’s way too fucking cold to have bothered in the first place. 

“Fuck, Mick,” Mandy says, grinding her teeth. Between how she’s shivering and the pull of the water running, she stumbles the last step to where he’s at, reaching to catch herself on his shoulders before she’s swept away. She’s surprised but not quite startled when Mickey brings his arms up around her, keeping her grounded where she’s at. 

They hold each other steady in the current, letting the water whisper and rush around them. Somehow, this seems sacred. It seems safe.

“You remember what mom used to say about the water?” When he speaks he’s so quiet Mandy isn’t quite sure he really said anything at first. “About the river?”

“Nope.” Mandy answers truthfully. She feels like she’s holding her breath until he starts talking again. Maybe he won’t. Maybe she doesn’t remember, and that’s it. She’ll never know. Maybe-

“She used to talk about it like it was somethin’ alive,” Mickey says. He drops his chin, almost letting it rest on her shoulder, but not quite. “Said the river always knows what you need. Gotta let it give it to you, or you’ll drown. S’a reason there’s so many stories about it, y’know? You can’t- don't come in unless you're ready to let it go."

The cold rattles her bones. She thinks that if she wasn't holding onto Mickey, she might drown. She thinks that he might be thinking the same thing about her.

 

It's a long time that they stand in the river, until Mandy can't feel her legs and Mickey has to all but carry her out of the water and back to the car. She doesn’t know how, but she knows she feels lighter than when she stepped in. It could be the water. It could be Mickey holding her up. Either way, it feels like progress.

 

Terry goes away again not long after that. Parole violation. Good fucking riddance. 

 

Ian Gallagher is not a name that ever comes up between them. 

Mandy knows. And Mickey knows that Mandy knows. And, well, he thinks, so what? It’s not like it matters anymore. Ian is gone. Not coming back. The way Mickey sees it, he’s free. 

That right there, though, is too much for Mandy. _Gone_. Too many people in her life- in both their lives- have just been _gone_. It’s always been hard for her not to be selfish with her magic, so this time she doesn’t even bother to try. Sea glass, columbines, a crow’s feather. One of Ian’s shirts that she found long after he’d last been there, shoved between two couch cushions, like he’d been in some kind of hurry to leave without it. She doesn’t remember when, but she remembers that she'd seen her mother help someone that way before, guide someone back to where their heart was. Whatever she can do to bring him home, she will. 

Fuck him if he thinks he can outrun any of this. Especially on something so risky. Especially when, if he could see how Mickey is dealing, he would wish he had never run away in the first place. And fuck Mickey if he thinks he’s gonna be better off without him. Stupid boys. This is why she doesn’t trust men. 

 

The garden has been gone for years. No matter how many times Mandy has tried to put something alive back into their front yard, it has remained a desolate desert. Anything she’s ever tried to grow has died just as quick as it came. What a fucking metaphor. 

But she gets home from school one afternoon and Mickey is unloading big yellow bags of soil off a truck she’s never seen before. “The fuck is that for?”

“The fuck you think it’s for?” Mickey throws a bag over his shoulder and moves it up next to the porch. “There’s seeds and shit in the cab. You helpin’ or what?”

It takes a second for Mandy’s mouth to catch up with her mind, to be able to process this. “Yeah- yeah, hold on, let me get changed.”

Mickey keeps moving supplies while she puts on something she won’t mind getting dirty. Because Mickey in the garden- _that_ is something she remembers. She has never seen her brother so happy as when he is covered in dirt and green. It’s good that he’s getting back to it.

They work until the sun goes down, spreading seeds in rows and sproutlings wherever they’ll fit. Mostly it still looks bare, for now, but even with the cold, Mickey seems to believe that things will come up in no time. 

It’s not just the herbs that they’ve put into the ground, though there is mint along the edge of the fence and rosemary by the garden gate. There are sunflowers, forget-me-nots, and lavender in bunches. Next to the porch are plants that will one day be vines, itching to inch up the rails. Along the fence are the lilacs, already sweet and tall.

Sopretty watches them from her perch in the windowbox until Mickey has to scoop her up and stick her on the porch so he can turn the soil and press in a packet of seeds. When the wildflowers bloom, the cat nestles in among them, only the tops of her ears and the blue of her eyes visible through the cool green stems. She just might enjoy the garden better than any of them.

 

As the garden starts to flourish, people start to whisper again. Little ones come to pick at the herb sprigs, chewing mint leaves on their way to school. Older ones come to stand under the lilacs, knowing that if they think, then, of their one true love, they’re sure to notice them the next day. 

_It’s not even spring_ , they say. What the fuck is going on in the house at the end of Trumbull?

Some of the grown ups remember, but they won’t say. False hope, they figure. Can’t count on those Milkovich kids for anything. Not like their mother. All they’ll ever do is let you down.

 

Once, when they were really small, Mickey remembers their mother not being able to help someone. Just once. 

It was this kid- this scrawny, freckled, wisp of a kid- who showed up at their door one night, jumping up to sound the wind chime, standing on his tiptoes to knock his fingernails three times against the windowpane. Even around the corner out of sight with his sister, Mickey could hear a small, strong voice, asking if what he had brought was enough, that if she could just help him, he would do anything, please. 

Some things, Mickey knows too well, never leave you. If he lives a thousand years, he will never forget his mother on her knees, embracing Ian Gallagher as he begged for a spell that would bring his mother home. When he closes his eyes, he can still see the clenched white of Ian’s fist around a shard of sea glass, a crow feather, a crushed columbine bloom. He can still hear his mother crying for him.

 

It’s been weeks since she last heard from him but one night Mandy wakes up and finds Ian asleep in Mickey’s bed. She follows the smell of smoke out to the front porch, where Mickey himself is sucking down cigarettes like his life depends on it, Sopretty winding tight, tense circles around his feet planted firm on the concrete past the bottom step. Mandy plants herself next to him on the steps, taking the cigarette from him with one hand and trying to soothe the cat with the other.

“When did he come back?” Mandy asks, practically hearing the hum of his mind going a mile a minute. She hisses quietly when Sopretty swats at her fingers, giving up on her ministrations.

Mickey shakes his head, dragging the cat into his lap. Not much to Mandy's surprise, she lays still and content as he strokes her. Figures.

“Didn’t.” Patience is a virtue Mandy never learned, but she still waits on him to elaborate. “I went and got him. Carried him over my fuckin’ shoulder.”

“Well, where was he?” She watches carefully, the way Mickey fights with his breath when it starts to speed up. Her hand hovers at his shoulder where she knows he wouldn’t want it. The cat narrows her eyes at Mandy, daring her to even try without his permission. “Hey.”

“Some club.” Mickey lets his whole body slump into her, just long enough to close his eyes and take the lighter from her. “Boystown. Been there a couple months, at least.”

If she's being honest, Mandy isn't exactly surprised.

Mickey takes a long time to get himself together. “It’s bad. It’s really fuckin’ bad.” Mandy feels her own throat ache with the tears he holds back. “What the fuck are we gonna do?”

“Well figure somethin’ out.” She says, like that’s all there is to it. Maybe this time it’s true.

 

**iv.**

 

Having a baby in the house is strange. It’s not just because Mandy herself was the last little one to be running around, but rather the circumstances by which the house finds itself with another baby. Mickey still can’t look at the kid, but his sister seems to know that what happened wasn’t Yevgeny’s fault, something that he still can’t wrap his mind around. 

Yevgeny. What the fuck kind of name is that, anyway? Although he’s one to talk, with a name like Mikhailov. Fucking Eastern European mothers. 

The kid has only been home for a few days, but he’s already keeping Mickey awake most nights, screaming until someone feeds or changes or rocks him. Who the fuck knew kids were such a fucking hassle. Svetlana works nights mostly, so Mickey feels no guilt in putting his ear plugs in and leaving his son- who might not even be his son- to cry. 

Mandy, though, takes pity on the poor, already fucked-up infant, unable to help feeling his distress like it’s her own. Sopretty has taken a liking to him as well, spending most of her nights now curled protectively in the corner of Yev’s bassinet, as she did with Mickey and Mandy when they were that young. Mandy wonders if somehow the cat knows for sure what they all wonder- if Yev is Mickey's after all, if he's even a Milkovich. If all of his small suffering in this house is for nothing.

She remembers being small and distressed. She thinks that maybe that feeling never really left her, but rather was just buried deep underneath much more pressing issues. What else she remembers, though, is how her mother rocked her back to sleep with stories and songs that kept the monsters away. 

With gentle hands, Mandy scoops Yev up out of his crib, holding him close against her shoulder and bouncing him soothingly. Nurturing has never been an instinct for her that came easily, but even so, she coos in his ear, “Shhh, you’re okay. You’re okay with me, kid, I got you.”

They venture out to the living room, Sopretty trotting close behind as they settle into the corner of the couch. Mandy gives the baby her finger to hold, surprised when he latches on tight. "You're a strong kid, huh? That's the Milkovich in you. You're gonna need it."

He keeps screaming. Sopretty stands with her front paws on Mandy's thigh so that she can peer at the boy curiously. Maybe she, too, wonders how such a tiny thing can make such a big noise.

"Yeah, well, you know who else is strong? The river," Mandy says, trying to keep her voice sweet and low. "I don't... well, I don't really know a lot about that. Which really fucking sucks."

Yevgeny is still fussing, but her attention seems to be doing the trick, as well as Sopretty’s gentle nudging at his little feet with her head. Mandy strokes his tiny hand with her thumb. "Mickey's always been really good at this stuff. Maybe one day you will be, too." She takes her hand away from him long enough to wipe at her eyes, just a second. "Anyway. About the river."

Even with how little Mandy knows, she feels like she could talk forever about the river. 

When Yevgeny is finally asleep again, Mandy looks up to find Mickey standing in the doorway, not quite watching them. She knows he's been listening longer than he'd admit, but she still says, "what are you doing up?"

"Where'd the coat come from?" Mickey gestures to the kid, but it still looks like he's looking just past him instead of at him.

"Ian," Mandy tells him, watching his expression carefully, though it doesn't change much. "Brought some of Liam's old stuff by earlier. Make sure the kid doesn't get cold."

Mickey fiddles with the unlit cigarette in his hand. He's always smoked, as far as Mandy can tell, but lately a pack a day is less than an exaggeration. 

"S'too fuckin' nice," Mickey mumbles. "The fuck's he gotta be so nice for?"

Mandy shrugs. "He's one of the good ones." She looks down at Yevgeny, his chest rising and falling in a way that seems so fragile she could cry. The cat, she thinks, looks at him in much the same way. "Hey, Mick-" She looks up again, but he's already gone.

 

Terry’s out. Then Mickey’s out. Then Terry’s back in. Then Mickey’s free. 

That night when he and Ian stumble home, he pauses to thank the rosemary for love, the lavender for luck, the thyme for courage. Maybe later, he thinks, he could even thank Mandy. She's kept their power alive the way that he tends to their stalks. For the first time in a very long time, everything feels... okay. At least okay. 

Mickey knows that moments like these are few and far between, and that they never last as long as you want, so he pulls Ian inside and closes the door behind them.

 

Once, when Ian first started coming around the house with Mandy, so long ago now that Mickey can barely picture it without a fuzz around the edges, he had asked about the cat that kept at Mickey’s heels more often than not. Mickey had brushed it off, telling him just that she had shown up one day and never left, and that her name was Sopretty, and when Ian had laughed at that, Mickey had told him that he could be nice to her or fuck right off. When Ian had held his hand out gently to pet her, the old girl had scratched at his skin with a low hiss and left him with three little lines on his palm that had taken weeks too long to heal over completely. Even now, Mickey knows, the scratches linger in just the right light, scars that should have been so small and insignificant that they disappeared quickly. 

Sopretty had never quite taken to him after that, seeming to know that he had been laughing at her, and at Mickey for choosing a name so silly for her, as if he had any choice in it at all. She refused treats that Ian had touched and kisses blown from his lips at the mangy thing sitting in her window box, quietly judging the way that he walked into her house like he was welcome. No matter how Mickey pleaded and tempted and tried to trick her into tolerating the Gallagher boy, she never budged.

That night that Mickey and Ian return victorious from their bloody brawl at the Alibi Room, Sopretty waits for the boys to lose consciousness, then nudges her way through the crack in the bedroom door to jump up onto the sheets with them. Forgoing her usual place at Mickey’s feet, or her unusual place at Mickey’s head, she instead settles into the space behind Ian’s bent knees, her head pillowed sweetly against his thigh. She doesn’t move for as long as he sleeps, startling Mickey a bit when he wakes in the morning to find her there. If he didn’t know any better, he would take it as a sign.

 

Three days. They get three good days before everything goes to shit again.

It’s not even a slow descent- something that happens that Mickey can keep track of, that he could prepare for, that he could fucking see coming. It’s just, one day, Ian is fine, and the next day, he won’t fucking get out of bed. And then it’s been days that he won’t get out of bed, and he won’t talk, and he won’t let Mickey touch him, and he won’t stop crying and-

And Mickey doesn’t know what the fuck he’s supposed to do. So he goes to the house and Debbie and Carl and the little one come back with him, and yeah, they know what this is, but they won’t fucking touch it until Lip or Fiona can talk to him first. The kids go home and Ian stays in bed and Mickey waits. Waiting is the worst fucking part. 

Mandy gets home from work that night after they go home and the first thing she sees is her bedroom door wide open, her floorboard ripped up, and her brother on his knees rummaging through her things. “Mickey, what the fuck?”

“I need spells.” Mickey lets her shove him aside as she comes in, dropping down next to him, checking her supplies to make sure he hasn’t fucked anything up in his search for whatever the fuck he thinks he’s looking for. It doesn’t occur to her yet to be stunned that he’s asking her for magic, that he knows where her things are. But he’s not stupid, she knows he’s not stupid, he’s probably always known, just shoved it away like he shoves everything away that he can’t handle-“That’s what you do still, right? You can- you can get him up, I know you can, mom used to do this shit all the fucking time-”

“It doesn’t work like that!” Mandy shoves him again; he lets himself be knocked off balance, falling against the side of the bed and leaning there like it’s the only thing keeping him up. “That’s not how it works, asshole, he’s sick, he needs fucking medication, not _spells_ -”

Mickey’s hand on her arm stays her anger and her voice. He’s too quiet. “Come on. I’m fuckin’- I’m fuckin’ desperate here. I need a fuckin’ miracle.”

“What we do,” she says through her teeth, still on edge, “It- it just takes the edge off. It’s not a cure.”

“But he’d be okay,” Mickey whines, “for a little bit. For long enough to get him to a fuckin’ clinic, prob’ly.”

Mandy looks up from her boxes. He’s not crying yet, but he’s about to be. It’s been too many times lately that she’s seen him about to cry over Ian Gallagher.

“Okay,” Mandy says. She offers him her arms, and he sinks into them, gripping her tight, like she’s all he has left. “Okay.”

 

Mandy lights a black candle on the nightstand to bind Ian’s demons that night, carving runes into it for peace and joy. She slides a sliver of lithium quartz behind it to encourage better health. She leaves him a worn brown blanket to curl up under, something that smells like Mickey. She hopes it feels like home. 

Sopretty stands guard at Ian’s side, circling throughout the day to rest at his ankles, his hip, his chest. In the worst hours when he won’t let even Mickey touch him, she allows him to soak her fur in saltwater and snot, purring loudly to challenge the sound of quiet hiccups and gasps that he tries to hide. She blinks at Mickey in the doorway over Ian’s head as if to tell him that she can handle this, for now, not to worry so much, and she’ll get him if they need anything. 

Mickey slips a sachet of allspice under Ian’s pillow and extra treats into Sopretty’s dish on the kitchen counter. He knows that that’s all he can do for now.

 

It takes another two weeks but eventually Ian is up and it’s almost like he was never down. Just a one time thing, he says. Won’t happen again.

His eyes are too wide. Sometimes that’s all Mandy can see when she looks at him.

But Mickey’s taking it for a miracle, because he still believes that that’s what witches do. That could be the only good that really comes out of what they’ve done- Mickey starts believing again. He starts drying his herbs again, clears a space in the cabinets for all of Mandy’s jars so they don’t have to live under the floorboards anymore. There are candles in the windowsill. It’s starting to feel like a home.

“Going somewhere?” Mandy finds him in the kitchen packing lunches one morning, letting Sopretty snatch the occasional piece of tuna from the plate where he’s making their sandwiches. The cat has taken to keeping her distance from Ian again, though not as violently as before. She’s only just as wary of his energy as the rest of them.

Mickey shrugs. “Takin’ Ian down to the river.”

“Yeah?” She tries to play it off cool, like he’s trying to play it off cool, but they both know this means something. There’s always a weight to what Mickey’s willing to share, but when he’s willing to share something about their mother, that’s… well, aside from Mandy herself, that’s something that’s never happened before. “Cool.”

“Yeah.” Mickey shrugs again. “Bringin’ home dinner tonight?”

“Sure,” Mandy smiles as wide as her mouth will let her. “See you tonight.”

 

The first time Mandy walks in on Mickey doing a spell, she can't quite process it until he's repeated his question to her three times.

"You gonna just stand there like a jackass, or you gonna answer me?" Mickey snaps his fingers, getting her attention. "Ain't got all day, I gotta be at the rub n' tug by three."

"Um, yeah." Mandy sits down at the kitchen table where he's got her stuff spread out, along with a few pieces she doesn't recognize spilling out of a paper bag. Spread out next to it in a patch of sunlight is Sopretty, pawing at a wayward strand of thread and begging for someone to notice how sweet she looks with her wide eyes and exposed belly. "One more time?"

"I need a fucking banishing spell." He says it slow, the way he talks to the girls sometimes, like she can't understand him. She elbows him in the ribs. "Ey, fuck you, if you don't wanna fuckin' answer, you can go the fuck-"

"Blessing seeds," Mandy says, pulling jars towards them across the table. Sopretty’s eyes follow the movement, seeming to note the weight of the words. "Pepper, basil, marigolds, and juniper. Put 'em in a coffee filter and tie it with black thread. Toss it in a fire at three in the morning and bury the ashes."

Mickey stares at her for a moment, his expression a blank mirror of what here just was. "...maybe you should do it."

"Fuck no, do it yourself." She grabs them each a beer out of the fridge, her brow furrowing at the way Mickey swipes his hand over his mouth, biting his lip, not meeting her eyes. "What?"

“Maybe I can’t do it anymore.” Mickey picks at a splinter coming off of the table. “Maybe- I don’t fuckin’ know, maybe it’s been too long, maybe I lost it or somethin’.”

She gets it. For once, she gets it, and she knows she gets it because she has been here before. It’s easy to be afraid that they have lost their magic, the one thing that has really made them their mother’s children, so long after she’s been gone. It’s almost enough to tug at her heart. 

Almost.

She slaps the back of Mickey’s head, ignoring his surprised jump and deluge of fuck-you’s. “It’s not just something you lose, dipshit.” She gets up, setting the small metal cauldron she uses for mixing in front of him none too gently. “It’s in our blood. Get a fucking grip.”

Mickey scratches his head where she hit him, scowling at her half-heartedly. “Whatever. Hey,” he tosses a package out of the brown paper bag to her as she walks away. “Hang this up over the door before you fuck off.”

Mandy unwraps the thing while Mickey gets to working his spell. It’s an eye fired from blue glass, a little bit of white circling the black center. When they were kids, their mother had one over every entrance in or out. Mirrors, too. She had very nearly forgotten. 

When she looks up, she sees him glancing away from her, like he was trying to gauge her reaction. She rolls her eyes a little, but she does it fondly, and she stops to put it up before she leaves. Sopretty is right behind her, gazing up at the eye almost tenderly before taking off to her window box.

 

It’s slow, getting back into the swing of things. Ten years deliberately _not_ thinking about it take their toll. Even with those things that haven’t left him, he still questions everything: how much thistle does it take to deflect lightning? What kind of bay do you use for sweet dreams? Where do you bury broken glass to make sure your dad never fucking gets out of prison?

That banishing sachet didn’t exactly work the way he’d intended it to; instead of getting rid of one nasty customer, the rub n’ tug lost nearly all its business for a solid week. Svetlana, now that she’s seen him work, knows what they do, seems equal parts unamused and impressed. On the one hand, no customers means no money. On the other hand, well, fuck. How much power does one person have to have to manage that?

Because Svetlana, Mickey has learned, is someone who has known magic, if only from a distance. Where she grew up, before her father sold her, she would have been one of the women to ring the chimes and tap on the windowglass. It seems that the old country is full of people like the Milkovich witches. 

So Mickey starts again, and he starts small. He practices honing that power, putting that energy and intention out into the world. He carves words in candles and lets the wax melt over them, words like _clarity_ because god knows he needs it and _rest_ because who couldn’t use more of that here? After a while, he finds himself carving intuitive shapes instead of letters, sigils instead of words. These are the concepts that he needs to touch but that don’t feel right to try and contain to just one word like _courage_ or _hope_. 

It may start slow, but once Mickey gets going, it’s like waking up a part of himself that he knew had been missing but hadn’t known where to find it. It’s like he never stopped. 

 

**v.**

 

There comes a moment not too far down the line where Mandy is faced with a choice, and she chooses to leave Chicago. Or maybe it’s not really a choice, she doesn’t know. Either way, she knows that sooner or later, she was going to be gone, and now is as good a time as any. 

“You’re kiddin’ me, right?” That’s what Mickey keeps saying. It’s no different the morning that she’s on her way out, when they’re sharing a final cigarette on the front steps. “You’re not seriously goin’ all the way to fuckin’ Indiana with that piece of shit?”

“My shit’s in the car, right?” Mandy snaps as Kenyatta shoots him a dirty look from where he’s loading up their stuff. “Where’s Ian?”

“Went on a run,” Mickey shrugs. The sun isn’t even up over the tops of the houses yet. “He told you to stay, right? Don’t you listen to him or somethin’?”

“He’s not my fucking keeper.” Kenyatta gets in and turns the engine over, and Mandy hands her cigarette back to Mickey. “I better go. Keep in touch, ok?”

“Hey!” Mickey yells by the time she opens the passenger’s side door. She turns to look at him one more time, his arms crossed over his chest, worrying his lip between his teeth. He looks young. He doesn’t say anything else. 

She gives him a half-hearted smile. “I left some stuff on your bed. Don’t worry about it.”

Inside is a box of half-empty vials, dried green that she’d taken from the garden. One of her favorite crystals, a chuck of rose quartz that’s always radiated love. A pile of hand-written papers, a copy of everything their mother ever told her, and everything she’s ever learned. If she’s right, and she usually is, he’ll probably need it more than she will.

Mandy gets in the car and tries very hard not to look back. She knows that if she does, all she’ll see is her brother watching her go, and her cat sitting in the window box, eyes narrowed, seeing right through every lie she’s ever told about leaving.

 

The first couple nights Mandy is gone, Ian is working nights at the club and Svetlana is staying over with her girlfriend so Mickey is left with the kid. He can’t really remember ever being left by himself with the kid before. It’s quick that he finds out that babies are both needy and boring as fuck. And since he’s still pretty fucking averse to touching the thing, he pretty much just lays it on the couch and sits next to it and tries to keep it from crying. 

Sopretty jumps up on the arm of the couch and pads across Mickey’s lap, stepping on the baby to get to its other side and settle down. Once she sits, she looks back at Mickey, blinking slowly. Maybe the only thing that really sways him anymore as far as the kid goes is that the cat likes it. She’s always been a good judge of character, and always on Mickey’s side of things, as far as people go. If she’s okay with the kid, maybe it’s not the worst thing in the world.

“The fuck do you even want?” Mickey shifts his leg to get the kid off when it rolls over, nudged off balance by the cat rubbing her head against it, and starts mouthing at the material of his jeans. “Hey, fuckin’ quit that, would you-”

And then the thing starts wailing, and Mickey has no choice but to pick it up and cradle it against his chest in a way that is entirely unfamiliar but not as entirely uncomfortable as he would have imagined. “That fuckin’ better?”

It’s whimpering still. Being a parent is a fucking joke.

“What?” Mickey bounces it a little, patting it’s back gently. “You missin’ Mandy?” He bites his lip a little, letting his voice quiet a little. “Yeah, well, me too. S’too fuckin’ quiet around here without her.”

The kid grabs at Mickey’s shirt with a tiny fist. It sighs softly, watching the material scrunch under it’s fingers. “Heard her tell you about the river one time. She ever tell you ‘bout the stars?”

Yevgeny falls asleep fast, but Mickey keeps talking, whispering until his own eyes slip closed and slip him into dreams.

And he dreams. Rivers. Stars. Spells. Dark-haired women, walking away. Always walking away.

Sopretty puts herself in his lap, keeping Yev in place when Mickey’s arms relax the longer he drifts. She, at least, doesn’t sleep, instead watching slices of headlights slide across the walls, coming in through the half-open blinds. Her eyes follow them like they might have answers, but to questions no one’s asked yet. Cats, especially cats who have learned to live with witches, just know things like that sometimes.

In the morning, Mickey wakes up with Yev sound asleep on his chest, the smell of pancakes wafting in from the kitchen. Even though Ian’s pancakes are the best in the world, he can’t quite make himself move right away. Who knows the next time the baby’s going to sleep this soundly?

 

A hundred and eighty-one miles from Chicago to Terre Haute. The farther she gets, the less Mandy can feel Mickey with her. It is a strange sensation to, for the first time she can remember, feel so completely alone.

 

It had to happen. It just fucking had to happen, right? There is no peace in this house. They don’t get _breaks_ here. Only intermissions between one crisis after another. Mickey was stupid if he ever believed otherwise. 

He did believe, though. Maybe on some level he still does. Maybe soon he’ll be able to see past all the shit that’s going down. Right now, though, all he can see are suitcases and stacks of stuff and this vacant look in Ian’s eyes like the lights are all fucking on but maybe he’s not all the way home. Mickey would give just about anything to bring him home. 

Bloodstone is good for grounding, so Mickey slips some in Ian’s pocket before he goes out for a jog. Garlic protects; the more Mickey can cook with it, the better. He puts three knots on a chord and ties it around the strap of Ian’s backpack to keep him from floating away. 

One night, Ian just doesn’t come back, and between thoughts of him, Mickey misses his sister. He can’t remember ever having missed her so much. Because Mandy would know what to do now. Even with how little he seems to know anymore, Mickey knows that she would know what to do. 

But Mandy fucked off to Nowhere with her shitstain boyfriend, so fuck her. Fuck her for being right about it not being a cure, and fuck her for leaving him alone with all of this. She doesn’t care enough to stick around when he needs her most, he doesn’t have to care enough to call her back. Mickey sits on the porch and smokes a whole pack of reds, one right after another, all by himself. He doesn’t need her anymore. Not even a little. 

Except for the part where he does.

 

When Ian takes off with Yev, Mickey runs through every protection spell he can think of. In between phone calls and family dropping by and placating his screaming wife, he’s on the bedroom floor with a rough ceramic cup in his hands, putting together ingredients and sealing them in paper and wax. Apparently this is all he knows how to do anymore; in a matter of months, he has gone from practical to magical, and he has no idea how he got here. Sopretty paces the house around him, sniffing the baby’s crib and crying when she can’t find it, wherever she looks. Her apparent distress at the lack of the child puts Mickey so on edge that he has to put her out in her window box just to get a second of peace, but even then he can hear her mewls past drywall and glass. Mickey may not be an empath, but her pain is just as real to him as his own.

Ginger, garlic, dill. _Just don’t go too far, ok?_ Cloves, cinnamon, anise. _Stop and sleep somewhere, don’t just fucking drive_. He has to go to the kitchen for the pepper off the table. 

Ian- Ian fucking loves that baby. If there's one thing in the world Mickey knows he will never be able to wrap his head around, it's how much Ian loves that baby. Every reason to want to drown that thing in the bathtub, but he doesn't, even when he's giving the kid a bath. Mickey catches him sometimes with this awed look on his face even, counting fingers, counting toes, blowing raspberries on a tiny tummy to get it to laugh. Ian loves that kid's laugh. He’d never let anything happen to the kid. Even in whatever the fuck kind of episode he’s having, he’d never hurt the kid. 

Rosemary, thyme, basil. _Call the fuck back, just so I know you’re not fucking dead somewhere._ Lavender, mugwort, caraway. _I love you I love you I love you._ There are some litanies he will never get over. 

It’s a long fucking drive to Terre Haute. Longer still since Mickey has no idea what the fuck is waiting for them. Hey, at least he’s in a safe place. _They_ are in a safe place. Mickey never figured himself to be the paternal type, but fuck if he isn’t just as worried about Yev as he is about Ian. That last spell must have done something, even if it wasn’t quite what he’d intended it to do. It’s gonna be okay now. Everything is gonna be fucking fine.

Broken glass. Quartz. Graveyard dirt.

_For god’s sake, turn the fuck around._

 

In Indiana, Mandy feels so far away from herself that it’s like she’s not quite a person anymore. Like maybe she doesn’t know how to be a person anymore without her brother at the back of her mind and her best friend still answering her calls. She can’t remember the last time Ian picked up his phone, the last time Mickey called her back. Everyone has their own shit to deal with, she knows, but it would be nice to know if any of them were at least fucking alive- and to know that they cared one way or another if she was alive, too. She doesn’t think that that’s too much to ask.

Her life starts passing in days and weeks. It could be longer, and she would have no idea because what the fuck does it even matter? Maybe there was nothing for her in Chicago, but now she knows, there’s fuck all for her here, too. 

What keeps her going more than anything else lately is her mother’s tarot cards, wrapped in blue silk at the bottom of her purse. This is what she can still connect with. 

Mandy starts doing readings out of the apartment when Kenyatta’s working and she’s not, two bucks a card, more for a decent spread. She hides the money away carefully, and though she’s not sure what she’ll do with it yet, she knows it’s going to be important. 

And she still doesn’t hear from Chicago. Eventually, she figures that they must be ok, because along with her spells she left Mickey with the gentle reminder that these things only have power if you believe that they do. By now, he has to believe that they do. He just fucking has to.

 

Ian comes back with the baby, but then he checks into the hospital. And that’s good. That’s the best fucking thing for him. Doesn’t mean Mickey doesn’t miss him like fucking crazy while he’s gone. Doesn’t mean he doesn’t _go_ fucking crazy while he’s gone. Between seeing him in that place and in _that_ place, Mickey doesn’t know if he can take it, or if Ian even wants him to take it. That’d be a fucking first.

Vodka is for strength, according to Mandy’s notes, and courage, so he loses some time on it. Even with his mother’s words, he finds himself to be his father’s son. He always thinks that this is it, this is the worst of any pain he could ever imagine, and with every new wound, he is proven wrong. He just needs a minute to get his shit together. 

The only solace Mickey finds after the alcohol is in Sopretty being nearly back to her quiet, calming self. Though she still sleeps in Yev’s empty crib, she seems content, almost as if she knows that the baby is safe now, if not home. In her waking hours, she keeps herself close to Mickey's side.

A few nights later, Mickey puts ginger and high john in a sachet in his back pocket before he walks to the Gallagher house on shaky legs. It’s only two blocks over, a route he knows well, but tonight it feels like miles and miles and miles. It takes him a long time to make himself go up the front steps and let himself in, but he thinks it’s worth it to be there, even if he’s a little late.

 

Part of what Mickey knows about Mandy being right is that it’s only a matter of time before Ian has to go to the clinic and go back on his meds. Whatever magic they tried, however much it seemed to work in the moment, they were always going to end up here. There are no spells for things like this. 

 

Mickey blames the mint for August. It’s not just the month, it’s the whole goddamn season. There is so much he would rather not have known, never have know, but here it is all laid out before him. Truth spills like whiskey from a cut glass tumbler, but no amount of cleaning will ever get it up. Like most of the rest of his life, Mickey will learn to live with it. He just hopes that maybe he won’t end up living alone.

He still has bruises on his body and blood on his face when he lights a candle in the window the night Ian is taken from him, _again._ Sopretty is somewhere nearby, as usual, slinking low among the suitcases that still litter the living room in stacks and sorted piles. In this empty house, she is perhaps the one thing that Mickey has learned that he can rely on, the single constant in his dead end roller coaster of a life. He knows how fucking stupid it sounds, how desperate it must seem that a fucking _cat_ is the most stable thing in his life, but fuck if that isn't the only truth that he's been able to find for himself these days. When all else fails, Sopretty is always lurking somewhere close by, soft and small and comforting. Mickey has never been more grateful for that than just about right now.

Everything hurts, inside and out, and he thought he could take this, but he can’t. He just fucking can’t. 

It was hard enough to see Ian in the hospital, it’s been hard enough to see him sick, but fuck all if the hardest thing isn’t seeing him alone in the back of that fucking car tonight. _Alone_. Somehow the two of them always end up alone. How the fuck is anyone supposed to do this alone?

For a moment, he thinks about calling Mandy. He even sits down on the floor to do it. Picks up the phone, dials her number, hovers his thumb over the call button for a long time. Sopretty crawls into his lap and purrs under his gentle hands, her rough tongue lapping at the blood on his knuckles. He’s sure that she could spend the rest of her life, the rest of both of their lives, trying to make him clean, and it would never work. Before long, he sets the phone down and decides he isn’t strong enough to ask for Mandy’s help again.

Mickey misses his sister. He misses his mother. Women are the strong ones, he thinks. He’s never been that strong.

Even if he can’t do this, Mickey knows that he will get up in the morning, and he will do whatever it takes to get Ian back home to him. He thinks of the sea glass, of crow feathers, and columbines. He will try again tomorrow. 

 

Ok, so, Mickey has made some bad choices. His whole life has just been one bad choice after another. He can own that. But the good choices- the one good choice- have always been Ian. Because, after all, it has always been Ian. For Mickey, there could never be anything else. 

Apparently, Ian doesn’t feel the same way. 

So even after everything, Mickey still gets the short end of things. Still gets shit on, still gets fucked over, still gets fucking _shot_. Fuck Ian Gallagher. Fuck all of this.

Laying there bleeding in the middle of the street, Mickey thinks that maybe he's just fucking cursed. He doesn’t remember anything after that. 

 

**vi.**

 

Before Mandy knows it, months are gone and she’s lying in bed one night sleeping like she hasn’t in a long time when suddenly she can feel Mickey like he’s lying right fucking next to her and it _hurts_. 

She sits up with a start because she can hear him crying. It’s rare thing that her brother cries like this, hopeless and shaking and still quiet like he doesn’t want anyone to hear him. Whoever is even _left_ to hear him must be having a hard time pretending they can’t. 

Months and miles and nothing. And now she feels like she’s about to fucking break in half from how strongly she can feel her brother. 

Mandy doesn’t stop to think first. She just grabs her bag, grabs her keys, gets in the car, and drives.

 

Mandy drives until the first rays of sun start lighting the sky. She parks the car, and for a moment is unable to move except to clutch the steering wheel in what tastes almost like terror. This doesn’t feel like the house she grew up in, her mother’s house, her brother’s house. When the fuck was it ever this quiet? When was it ever this dark?

Pain hits her again in waves, stronger now, almost crippling. She wants to take it away. She wants to take it all away from him. What the fuck happened here?

Mickey’s in bed, propped up against the headboard clumsily, his arm in a sling and his heart on his sleeve. On the shoulder that isn’t hurt, Sopretty has curled herself against Mickey’s neck, barely fitting now that she’s fully grown. Mandy’s mind flashes back at the sight of the familiar scene, to Mickey, much younger, sleeping off his bruises with the little grey kitten wrapped around him and acting like a pillow. Her heart gives another painful squeeze because she doesn’t know how she could possibly have let them get to a place where the fucking _cat_ is a better support system to her brother than she herself is. That cat has always been there for him. Mandy wishes now that she could say the same.

Sopretty blink her eyes open and they reflect back at Mandy in the moonlight as if to say, _well, you’re here now. Better make the best of it._ Mandy intends to.

She drops her bag, toes off her shoes, and wraps her arms around Mickey. He doesn’t bother to question her presence after all this time, just burrows into her and lets himself go. 

It takes a while to get him talking, but when he does, he tells her everything. Everything. 

By the time the sun is going down again, they’re talking in whispers, like kids in the dark when they don’t want their parents to know they’re still awake. It is easy to pretend for one long, exhausted moment that they are still small and brave, and nothing can hurt them any more than they’ve already been hurt. They whisper to each other, _what happened?_ , and _life happened_ , and _that’s ok_ , comfort traded back and forth in hushed tones even though there really is no one left to hear them but each other.

In these moments, Mickey knows that he has found his faith again, because all he can think to do if he can ever drag himself out of bed is to light a candle and work a spell for relief. If only he could find some relief. 

Meanwhile, Mandy finds her faith faltering, just for a moment, just for the second that it takes her to realize that for all of the charms she’d left him and prayers she offered, Mickey still got shot, and Mickey still got his heart broken. Fuck this life. Fuck all of it. 

There is a benefit, though, to being alone with each other. When Mickey finally lets himself sleep, Mandy tucks the blankets around him and thinks about the walls that she has spent so long keeping up and keeping strong. Before she closes her eyes, she imagines them falling down, disassembling them brick by brick until she can feel just _everything_. 

It might take a while, but she thinks that she can get used to feeling the thrum of the earth under her skin again. She can get used to feeling alive. 

Mickey and Mandy sleep until they feel rested. For the first time in a long time, maybe forever, it works. 

 

Milkovich’s survive, that’s what they do. This is especially true of the little witches, who start rebuilding the minute they’re torn down. Of all things, it seems impossible that this will ever change. 

 

It’s not long that Mandy’s been back before one of the Gallagher’s inevitably ends up at their door. Funny enough, though, it’s the back door that she shows up at, gently rattling the newly-hung wind chime, tapping her fingernails on the windowpane. So many years have passed since the last time that happened, Mandy and Mickey share a look of absolute astonishment before Mandy gets up to see who it is and Mickey slinks off to sulk in his bedroom, Sopretty close at his heels. 

Debbie Gallagher is on the other side of the door asking for love spells and absolute certainty. Mandy’s heart breaks a little for her, because it doesn’t work like that, she knows; if it’s not there, it’s not there. She remembers being so hungry for love, so desperate for that boy to feel the same way about her as she did about him, that she would have done anything. Lust is attainable, she tells the little girl, but love is a fuckton more complicated. 

Last time Debbie was here, it was Lip who Mandy had to stop herself from asking after. Now it’s Ian. And holy shit, is it hard not to ask how he’s doing. 

Still, Mandy has never been one to remain a neutral party, so she doesn’t ask about her best friend, not when it’s her brother who still won’t leave the house, still wakes her up every other night when he’s drunk or crying or just fucking lonely. She cares, she does, she always will, but she just can’t let herself care right now. 

At her refusal for spells, Debbie leaves in a hurry and in a huff, not offering up any information on her own brother. Mandy figures it’s probably better that way.

 

Mandy remembers how hard it was to put walls up. To keep everyone out. Mickey was a given, she thinks now; she could never have really shut herself off from him for good. There’s no one else like that, so ingrained into her blood and bone that he could still find her, or she could still find him. But there was, once, someone who got past her defenses and threw her for a loop. Just once. Just for a second.

Sometimes, she thinks, they all forget that before he was Mickey’s, Ian was hers. She forgets sometimes, too. Not that it really matters anymore. 

Ian Gallagher has a heart that shines like the fucking sun. How was that not supposed to slip through the cracks? 

 

A few weeks after the incident, Carl Gallagher calls Mickey from juvie to shoot the shit and see how he’s doing. It occurs to Mickey while they’re on the phone that Carl could probably use some protection, and since he’s long run out of friends inside, he whips up a sachet and lights a candle for the kid. If anybody tries roughing him up, Mickey is sure to let Carl know, just give him another call. Mickey is in no way as adverse to curses as his sister. When Carl asks for spells, he gets them.

 

Most of their days now are spent smoking and drinking on the porch with Sopretty. Mickey is still mostly laid up from a fucking bullet to the chest, and Mandy just kind of up and left her whole new life, so they figure, what the fuck else are they supposed to be doing? Jobs are hard to come by at best, not that Mandy hasn't been trying. They're probably gonna end up running out of cash fast, and it's not like their other brothers are exactly around anymore, very quick to get their own lives once Mickey the Mastermind was out of commission. Iggy stops by every once and awhile. Joey's back in prison. The fuck knows where Colin and Tony got off to.

So Mickey and Mandy spend their time day drinking and smoking and reading each other's fortunes. It's an old habit, remembered from hot summer afternoons when there was no one else to play with, or who wanted to play with them. Mickey's always been ok at palmistry, so he takes his sister's hands in his own and traces her familiar lines. Even though it's been years, he imagines her hands are still very small, delicate in his larger ones. Something precious he has to protect. Well, he knows how the fuck that one went.

"Love lines are good," Mickey shrugs half-heartedly, but he files the information away, saving it like he'll need it later. Mandy chuckles, but it's a bitter sound. He's always known that her love lines run long and deep, the same on as his own hands that he's never thought much of. "Which one's the life line again?"

Mandy retracts her hands with a snort, putting them to better use by rubbing Sopretty’s exposed tummy. "How about I just do you?"

Mickey holds his hand out for her, but instead of taking it, she hands over a heavy rectangle wrapped in blue silk. His eyes widen when he realizes what they are; he hasn't seen their mother's tarot cards in years.

Mandy notes how careful he is when he unwraps them. How delicately he shuffles through them. How reverent he is when he draws three cards. Even Sopretty lets her sleepy eyes slide slowly open and stare, like maybe she remembers them, too. Mandy half wishes that her empathy extended to animals, that she had worked harder to hone and focus that hypothetical power so that she could see what Sopretty remembers of their mother. What great secrets has that cat been keeping for all of these years? What must she know that they don’t?

When Mickey lets Mandy flip the first card, his past is grief, the three of swords. Un-fucking-surprising. He waves his hand dismissively. “Yeah, yeah, I know that one. Next?”

His second card, his present, is the tower- turmoil. Mickey pulls Sopretty into his lap one-handedly, ignoring her cry of protest to instead scratch his fingers behind her ear almost compulsively. She settles down quickly enough, and, knowing Mandy is waiting for some kind of response, he jokes half-heartedly, “What, am I supposed to throw myself off it, or somethin’?” 

Mandy rolls her eyes but notices the way his whole face has dropped. She wills the next card to be better. He has to know it’s going to get better. 

He flips the last card, his future. If the past wasn’t a surprise, and the present was even less of a surprise, it’s the future that really throws them for a loop. 

Mickey stares at the card, then blinks up at her. “The fuck is that?”

Mandy can’t stop her smile. “It’s the sun, Mick.”

“No shit it’s the fucking sun,” Mickey snaps, sliding Sopretty up closer to his chest and holding her there like a shield, as if he can protect himself from what’s coming. “The fuck does it mean? Am I gonna get set on fire? That’d be fuckin’ perfect-”

“No, asshole.” Mandy swats his good shoulder, but he still winces and rocks back. Sopretty whines in protest, clawing a little at his shirt so that she can hang on tighter. “It means hope.”

They both stare at the card for a long time. _Hope_. It feels like such a foreign concept. 

After a long moment, Mandy chances asking, as gentle as she can bring herself to be, “Hey. Have you hear anything from-”

“No.” Mickey shuts her down and shuts himself off. Quick as anything. The familiarity of the action is almost as comforting as it is painful, another thing that they have in common. Magic and anger and seclusion. How very Milkovich of them.

When Mandy sees the sun, she sees Ian. Always lighting up everyone and everywhere he goes. Looking at this card, seeing hope and seeing him, she also sees Ian coming to his senses, getting down on his knees, and begging Mickey back into his life. It’s not like Mickey could only ever be happy with Ian- she doesn’t believe that for a second. But right now, she knows that that’s what it feels like. 

Mickey sees Ian, too, when he sees the sun. But where Mandy sees hope, he sees resignation. He knows that Ian wouldn’t even have to beg. Mickey would run back the second he called. If he called. 

Mickey knows he’s not gonna call.

“Cards are wrong,” Mickey declares, pulling himself up by the porch rail with a huff. Sopretty drops to the floor and stays low, scurrying away to the window box. She will have no part in this fight Mickey seems to be having only with himself.

Mandy shakes her head. He’s inside too fast, she knows he won’t hear her, but she tells him anyway: “The cards are never wrong.”

 

Mickey has no more illusions. He knows that loving Ian the way that he does is the ugliest part of himself. He just doesn’t know how to change. 

 

It becomes that the garden is Mickey’s saving grace. He pours all of himself, his heart and soul, into keeping everything not just alive but thriving. The early mornings and late afternoons often find him tending to the buds just blooming and the stems already alive. In the garden, he nurtures himself as much as he nurtures his plants. This is where he lets himself start to heal. 

Until he finds the columbines. 

One little corner of wildflowers is all it takes to send Mickey into a rage so red that he rips up every living thing he can get his hands on. Sopretty flings herself from the window box where she had been snoozing, hissing and screeching as she takes off like a shot away from the disaster area. Crows perch on the wire fence, out of his reach, close enough to revel in the carnage. The boy is on a roll, and it is quite the sight to behold.

His mother always told him that columbines were for fate. Maybe even true love. Now Mickey knows better. Now, he knows that columbines mean _foolishness_. They mean _adultery._ They mean that you can give your whole heart to someone and they can still choose to fuck you over like it’s nothing. Fuck columbines. Fuck _fate_.

Mandy cries from the window, watching for what feels like the hundredth time as he falls apart. The neighbors watch from their homes, whispering about the Milkovich boy and his woes, all of the problems that never seem to be solved. For all that the witches have done for everyone else, they never seem to be able to help themselves. Passersby stop and stare from the street, quiet as Mickey screams his frustration as loud as his lungs will let him. 

Yeah, so, life happened. But how could they have ended up here? How the fuck did this happen to him?

Mickey doesn’t feel the last of his stitches sting as they tear out of his shoulder. He doesn’t feel his fingernails rip from their beds or his throat getting raw or the hot wet of tears streaming down his face. He can’t feel anything at all.

When he’s worn himself out, he drops to his knees in what’s now just mulch, bloody and dirty and all but unable to catch his breath. Seeing his warpath ended, Mandy ventures out slowly in the hopes of collecting him.

“Mick?” She says gently, kneeling next to him. When she reaches for him, he flinches away, scrunching his face up and refusing to meet her eye. “Come on, Mick, come inside, it’s gonna get cold.”

“Why?” Mickey whispers, his head down. At first Mandy isn’t even sure he spoke, but when he speaks again, his voice is ragged, broken. “Why the fuck did this happen?”

For a moment, Mandy doesn’t know what to say. She knows what happened, she knows how they got here. But she doesn’t know why. She’s never stopped to think about it. She sure as shit doesn’t want to now. Truthfully, she’s afraid that there is no reason for his suffering, that everything that he’s feeling, that they’re both feeling, is for nothing. There isn’t any good way to tell him that without hurting him. Mandy can not let herself be someone else who hurts him. Not anymore.

“We don’t choose these things,” she whispers back eventually. This time when she goes to grip his shoulder, he doesn’t shake her off. “They choose us.”

Mickey lets her haul him up and guide him inside by the last dregs of day. He’s too exhausted to do anything but fall on the couch and succumb to sleep.

 

The next morning, Mickey wakes with the sun. He finds that someone has clumsily stitched him back together, and not as clumsily cleared the yard of the wreckage he wrought. He doesn’t have to guess more than once to know who it was. 

Mickey cleans himself up and gets himself to the closest nursery. When he comes home, he comes with a car full of fresh soil and new seeds, and he starts planting again.

Just as many people stop to watch him restore his garden as stopped to watch him destroy it. 

At the end of the night, he and Mandy sit on the porch together, passing a cigarette and a beer back and forth as they survey his hard work. Mickey says, “You were right.”

“About what?” Mandy looks at him out of the corner of her eye, wanting to prod but not provoke. This, she thinks, might very well be a once in a lifetime thing. 

Mickey smiles and tells her, “Everything.”

 

**vii.**

 

At the end of October, Mandy sets open mason jars out on the walkway. Mickey doesn't comment, mostly because he has learned that when your sister is just shy of psychic, you don't question the weird shit she does. You get either an answer too cryptic to decipher or a fuck off and trust me. He'd rather just trust her.

Things like that have been popping up lately around their house; mason jars and sachets and sigils on post it notes. If one of them didn't put it there, it was the other, but neither has any qualms about it. They both know how to spot a curse, and none of these are that.

On occasion, they collaborate, but not as often as Mandy had always hoped. Mickey still keeps mostly to himself in his spells, approaching her only to confirm what he already knows about an herb or a practice. They're close, again, but it's not like when they were kids. Time works like that, she supposes. The longer it goes on, the further away you get.

At some point it hits Mickey that Sopretty has been away from their home for longer than he’s ever seen her gone. She doesn’t come when he calls at the door, or leaves her dish on the walkway overnight, or smokes on the porch by the light of the moon. The window box has been empty of all but the wildflowers once tracked there by little paws, still trying to fill in after Mickey’s fit. 

That’s about the last time that he saw her, he supposes. When he tore apart the garden. He can’t say that he blames her for running away after that, if that’s what he’s done. She doesn’t deserve his anger, but that’s what he’d exposed her to. He hates to think that that could be the last that she saw of him.

Justifying it to himself doesn’t mean that the abandonment doesn’t sting, after all they’ve been through, he and that cat. Of all the things in the world he has figured he would lose, Sopretty has never been one of them. 

Not long after Mandy arranges her jars, Mickey finds himself admiring his garden by the light of the full moon at four in the morning. He doesn't know how to sleep anymore; some days he's too wired to even close his eyes and others he can't bring himself out of bed. Part of him, the part that he keeps carefully closed, takes him back to those months where he saw the same thing happening to someone he loved, but he knows this is different. _Headcase_ and _heartbreak_ are not synonyms, and Mickey can own having a broken heart, if only to himself.

His cigarette warms his hands in the unseasonable cold, and just as he's wondering whether he should have woken Mandy to come sit with him when he realizes that it isn't just cold- it's fucking snowing.

This is the first time he's seen snow since April, the earliest it's fallen in forever, and it's coming down fast enough to start filling those goddamn jars. Mickey's jaw drops enough that when he exhales, he can see his own breath. Fucking psychic sisters, man. He should've figured it was something like this.

It’s not long before Mandy is out on the steps next to him, stealing his cigarette and draping a blanket around their shoulders. He huffs a laugh and slings his arm around her neck, pulling her close enough to drop a kiss on top of her head and rest his cheek there. The cigarette burns out, but they still sit there until Mandy can’t feel her toes and Mickey’s teeth chatter. 

It is quite a thing to revel in such pure white. The dusting turns into a blanket before them. You don’t have to be a witch, Mickey knows, to see the magic happening here. You just have to sit and watch the snow. 

 

It’s a little dumbfounding when it hits Mickey that he hasn’t seen the baby in close to months. It’s even crazier to him that, as he realizes how long it’s been, he also just might actually miss the kid. When he tells Mandy, she just rolls her eyes because she knew that already. The whole empath thing is nice, sometimes, but would it kill her to act surprised at least every once and awhile?

Svetlana isn’t exactly amicable about letting Mickey babysit, but she hands over Yevgeny and his things after minimal arguing and maximum ground rules. When she asks after the cat, always very nearly as protective of the baby as she is, she looks a little sorry that Sopretty has been missing. She doesn’t mention carrots once, which Mickey is grateful for. 

“So, what, you wanna be a dad now?” Mandy asks, seating herself next to them on the living room floor where they’re playing. Though playing, Mickey thinks, is a rather loose term for what they’re doing; it’s more like Mickey stacks blocks and Yev knocks them down, taking far too much joy in his powers of destruction. 

Mickey just shrugs. “Maybe. I dunno.” 

It’s a little startling how much Yev has grown since Mickey last saw him, not even that long ago. He sits up on his own now, grabs things with more purpose. The noises he makes sound less like babbling and more like syllables, still gibberish but feeling more coherent. Mickey never thought he’d regret missing watching these things happen.

“You’d better make up your mind pretty quick,” Mandy muses, watching the way Yev fusses trying to scoot himself closer to Mickey, the way Mickey reaches out and pulls him into his lap, “before he ends up getting attached or something.”

“Ain’t like I got anything better to do.” Mickey runs his fingers through Yev’s hair, still coming out in soft, light tufts. It’s true, he doesn’t know if he wants to be a dad. Doesn’t know if he could, even if he did want to. There are moments, he reasons, moments like now when the kid is leaning against his chest and he’s so small and warm and fragile that Mickey can’t imagine turning away from him. Fuck where the kid came from, that’s always gonna hurt. But the kid didn’t do anything except exist. He’s here now. Where the fuck else is he supposed to go?

Before he takes Yev home, Mickey slips a bag of herbs and stones into one of the pockets in his diaper bag. Mandy catches him zipping it back up and raises her eyebrow. He snaps guiltily, “What?”

"What's that?" Mandy nods at the bag. Mickey's cheeks pink considerably, making her grin.

"Just a- thing. Rosemary, quartz, usual shit." Mickey rubs the back of his neck awkwardly, unreasonably defensive. "Don't want my kid to worry about shit he doesn't have to, y'know?" At the sudden shift in Mandy’s expression, his blush deepens and he asks again, “Come on, _what_?”

“Nothing,” Mandy smiles, just a little, almost proudly. “Never heard you call him your kid before is all.”

Mickey stares at the sleeping baby in his sister’s arms. It’s true, probably; he can’t remember ever having called the kid his. He’s never wanted to. If he’s being honest, he’s not sure he’s ever really believed it. Hell, he still might not believe it. 

Mandy talked about not letting the kid get too attached to him, but maybe somehow in the past few months, Mickey got attached to the kid. Who the fuck knows how that happened- maybe it was the Sopretty, maybe it was Mandy, maybe it was-

But Mickey won’t let his mind go there, so he wonders if it was maybe just the kid himself. However it happened, Mickey is glad it did. 

 

The first weeks of winter are slow. They pass like August passes, but instead of the sluggish heat, it’s the frozen ground that keeps everyone on their toes. One wrong step and they all fall down.

Mandy spends these weeks lighting candles in the window, for peace, for change; for herself, for Mickey, for Ian. She gives the whole house a good cleansing, with sponges and new coats of paint, and with clary sage hung in the windows. Soap and ashes tend not to mix, but somehow she makes it work.

Mickey helps as much as he can, whenever he can between the knocks that start coming on the back doors. He sees her try so hard to bring happiness back to this dark and miserable place, to fill the house with the same love that their mother filled them with any time she so much as called their names. And while Mickey can't remember the last time he let love fill more than the most hidden parts of himself, for Mandy, now, he is willing to try. Even if it is something so small as tending to the rosemary and the lavender.

As visits from neighbors become more frequent, Mandy realizes that she has never figured herself to be the maternal type. She’s never figured herself strong enough, or kind enough, or selfless enough to be. When these people need her to be, though, she tries- she finds herself speaking gently and using lighthearted words, giving optimism where it is due, and even sometimes where it is not. Against all odds, she finds herself here. She finds herself home. 

This is new territory that they’re venturing into, being themselves the Trumbull witches. Every night, more and more customers show up at the back door, each knowing even though years have passed to ring the chimes, tap the window, wait seven seconds. One of them always answers. The insomnia that Mickey has been trying to cure with valerian and chamomile comes in handy when he’s seeing the last of a long stream of clients, when the first hints of light begin to touch the sky. 

Now that the neighbors have started whispering again, it’s the little witches’ job to take care of them, though they are not so little anymore. Mandy knows, now, through experience, that their mother was no miracle worker; burying kitchen herbs tied up in coffee filters will only get you so far. Sometimes it’s all they can do to give people a little bit of hope. Sometimes, that’s all there is. 

 

Everyone knows not to call until after dark, so by the time the ground thaws, it becomes ritual for the witches to spend early evenings in the garden. More often than not, Yevgeny is with them, learning how to use the family gift and digging his chubby fingers into the earth in search of worms. Mandy always brings the mugs of tea, Mickey tends the plants, and Yev chews the worms before Mickey can pull them quickly from his mouth and curse himself for not paying closer attention. When Mandy reminds him that he, too, ingested his fair share of dirt and worms, even at a few years older than Yev, he just flips her off and tries not to catch his fingers on the baby’s new razor teeth. 

It is in this time, too, that Ian Gallagher takes to walking by at sunset, just about when Mandy has already gone inside to light her candles. At first, it’s just once a week, then a few times a week, then every day. He pauses long enough to make awkward eye contact with Mickey and then be on his way. If Yev sees him, though, he reaches for him, he cries, and from the window Mandy can see the heartache written all over her best friend’s face when he has to ignore him and keep walking. Mickey’s gotten to be much better at soothing his son, but Mandy still starts bringing him inside before Ian gets there. 

One night, Ian happens past a little earlier than usual, when Mandy and Yev are still out front. Mickey half-glances at the window box like Sopretty will be there to tell him what to think. Ian catches Mickey’s eye; they stare, a little puzzled, at each other, until the baby starts screaming. 

“Eeeee!” Yev whines, crawling on hands and knees to the fence, trying to pull himself up on the chain link. It’s been months since anyone’s spoken about this particular Gallagher in their home, but it sure as fuck sounds like Yev is trying to call him by name. “Eeee!”

“C’mere, squirt,” Mickey mutters, leaning over and scooping Yev up hastily at the sound of his distress. One hand fisted in Mickey’s shirt, Yev reaches with the other like that will somehow pull Ian closer, so that he can cling to him instead. “C’mon, quit that, I got ya.” 

Ian is gone by the time Mandy looks away from her brother and his son. She catches Mickey’s eye and asks what she’s been wanting to for months. “Something going on there?”

“No.” Mickey’s voice is firm but his hands are gentle as he rubs Yev’s back, kisses his head absently. Yev sniffles pitifully, relaxing into Mickey’s chest now that Ian’s out of sight, and out of mind. If only it were that easy for the rest of them.“I don’t know.”

Mandy shrugs, content to let him be unsure for now. Time will tell, as it often does. “Gimme the kid, we’ll start getting dinner ready.” 

Mickey hands him over without protest, but Mandy catches him staring after the way Ian went long after they’ve gone inside. 

 

Spring comes, and spring goes. Sopretty doesn’t come home. Mickey has some questions, so he sets mint in the windowsill months early. There are so many things he doesn’t know. There are so many things never got to ask his mother, either because he didn’t have the questions yet or because he didn’t have enough time- _time_. There’s never enough of that lately. For anything. 

It’s more than just _can you substitute bay for mugwort in a pinch?_ and _how many blueberry leaves in a front porch curse?_. It’s, _what do I do about him now?_ and _if you really loved us, why did you leave?_. 

There are no good answers, or at least none he wants to hear. His mother taught him a great many things, but she never did teach him how to let go. He thinks he’s ready to try loosening his grip on the past, maybe, at least a little. What he does know for certain is that somewhere in the past few months, he got to a point where he is _ok._ Or going to be ok, at least. He may not have his mother’s guidance, but maybe the mint will show him the way instead.

 

Sea glass. A crow feather. A columbine bloom. Mickey comes home to them in a pile on the kitchen table and feels surprisingly betrayed. Tokens and tags for target spells don’t have to be hair or fingernails; they can be by association, too. This has Ian Gallagher written all over it. 

It’s almost a reflex to snap at Mandy when she wanders in, especially over this. “The fuck is this shit doin’ here?” 

“He brought it by earlier.” Mandy shrugs, knowing he’ll know who _he_ is. She pouts defensively when Mickey shoots her a scathing look. “He showed up at the back door, what the fuck was I supposed to do, turn him away?”

Mickey sniffs dismissively, glancing at her and then back at the little pile. “What’d he want?”

“What does anybody want?” Mandy sweeps the pieces into her hand, moves to put them in the chest of other treasures that people have exchanged spells for. “Mostly peace of mind, I guess.”

Mickey watches her closely, like he’s taking stock. “What’d you give him?”

“Black soap.” Mandy closes the trunk’s lid, letting her hands linger on the wood. “Went and talked with him for a while.”

“Yeah?” Mickey snorts, grabbing a beer from the fridge, taking a long swig. “What’d fuckhead have to say?” 

“That he was sorry.” Mandy says, short and clipped. Mickey can’t tell who she’s annoyed with. “And he’s doing good, Mick. Steady job, back on his meds, fucking therapy and everything.”

“Yeah, well.” Mickey scuffs his shoe on the floor. She doesn’t know if he’s being sarcastic or not when he says, “that’s fuckin’ great.”

“It’s _really_ great.” Mandy gets her own beer, flicking his ear as she passes. “So don’t be a fucking asshole.”

“Hey,” Mickey protests, swatting at her hand. “Thought you were on my side.”

“I am on your side.” Mandy chastises his train of thought. “I’m always on your side.” She rubs the same hand that flicked him through his hair, casually spilling affection that today Mickey gladly accepts. “This is me being on your side.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” Mickey sighs softly, closing his eyes and for a moment allowing himself to relax under her gentle touch. This is something they’re learning again, too. “He really seem ok?”

“He did.” Mandy chances pressing a quick kiss to his cheek. “He misses you.”

Mickey pulls away from her, draining his beer and letting out a loud belch. “Whatever the fuck you say, sis."

The next evening, Mandy watches from the window when Ian comes to help with the garden, tentative and shy. Still hesitant, Mickey directs him how he needs him, and that's that, It's not _good_ , but it's _getting there_ ,and that's what counts.

 

The end of the first week of August finds neither of the Milkovich witches able to sleep. Even if they didn't share a wall, Mandy would be able to hear Mickey tossing and turning from a mile away. He's not surprised when she knocks at his door, a pack of reds and the last bottle out of the six-pack in hand; he just gets up and follows her outside.

They sit on the front porch steps, passing the beer back and forth and trying to spot familiar stars past the ever present smog and city lights. Out here in the sticky heat of summer, it seems that everything feels exactly the same as it did last year, and the year before that, and for as long as there has been a city and a summer and two kids looking to the sky to find their way. It is as if time is standing perfectly still. Neither of them wants to break the spell of the night, to ruin whatever this is with the harsh scrape of words against the cold and dark.

It's Mickey who gives in first, too many words trying to claw their way out of his throat to not say them out loud. "What are we gonna do when Dad gets out?"

"He can find somewhere fucking else to live," Mandy says, dainty and lady-like, around her cigarette. And she says it like it’s a certainty, like there has never been any question about it, like it could ever really be their choice. "It's not his house anymore."

"S'prob'ly not what he thinks." Mickey steals a sip of the now-warm beer. It doesn't go down smooth, caught on fear resting sharp and solid somewhere in his chest. Terry won’t go away without a fight. After everything, Mickey isn’t sure how much fight he has left in him, but the columbines blooming in the window box give him enough pause to reconsider, every time that he sees them.

"Yeah, well, fuck him." She says it matter-of-factly, like it's ever going to be as simple as that. "He deserves everything he ever got." Her next words come carefully; she knows the weight that they carry. “Except us.”

“Except us, huh?” Mickey snorts at that. “We suppos’d to be somethin’ special or some shit?”

“Maybe.” Mandy shrugs. It’s as definitive as anything in their lives, the idea that they are maybe something special. It goes beyond the gifts that their mother gave them, she can tell, right to the very core of who they are. Even with all of the things that she knows, the nature of it still eludes her, though for once she thinks that she might be alright with that. That maybe it is best not to know. “We’re too good for that prick, anyway.”

She doesn’t know if Mickey believes her, but for now, that’s ok. Things get quiet again, and by the time Mandy asks her own question, she thinks that they could have been sitting there for just minutes or for weeks, not smothered but strangely comfortable by the night so snugly tucked around them. “Do you forgive mom?”

“Sometimes.” Mickey doesn’t even have to think about it, because it’s something he thinks about all the time. Their mother is a mystery to him even now that he thinks he understands so much of her- who she was, how she managed with what she had, why she did what she did. Of course, there will always be things that he can never comprehend, but he has learned that there are some secrets better left uncovered, some mysteries better left untouched. “Think she did somethin’ she needs to be forgiven for?”

“Sometimes.” Mandy throws his own answer back at him, and they crack identical grins because it’s true. In moments like this, it’s easy to forget that they’re not twins, with how in sync they are. That they were never once the same person. When they were small, Mandy sometimes wished that that had been the case, but she knows now that they never could be. It doesn’t bother her like it used to. This is somehow even better.

It’s how she knows exactly who Mickey’s talking about when he says later, “I wished for him. When we were kids.”

Mandy passes him her cigarette, watching the ashes smoulder on their way to the ground. “I thought that spell was so you’d never fall in love.”

Mickey smiles wistfully, but not sadly. That, Mandy knows, is what progress looks like. He can talk about that boy now, can think about him without the anger that usually touches memories that are that precious and that painful. That sacred. “Should’ve been more specific, I guess. Didn’t think I’d be falling in love with a guy back then, y’know?”

Mandy knows. “What are you gonna do about it?”

“Dunno.” Mickey answers honestly, a rare thing even now. It must be the night, the mint, the first week of August. “Hey, what would you do? If it was you?”

“What wouldn’t I do,” Mandy grins all over her face, “for the right guy?”

They laugh, at that. At some point they forget what they’re even laughing at, and for a moment, they’re just two kids laughing and leaning against each other on their front porch, young and crazy and alive. How they should be. 

So much of their lives has been spent holding on to the past. _Remembering_. Maybe it’s time for them to start looking towards the future. And if they can’t quite bring themselves to look that far, then at least start looking at the here and now. Mandy thinks that they could be ready for that. If Mickey could read her mind, he would be inclined to agree. 

Under the lilacs, they both catch sight of a small black cat, looking back at them in the low lamplight that drowns out the moon. Sopretty trots down the cement walkway, just past them and just out of reach on her way to the window box. She settles down among the columbines, just tall enough to hide all but the tops of her ears and the glow of her blue eyes, trained on them watchfully, like she’s been gone for no time at all, or like she’s been here watching them all along. For all they know, maybe she has.

They both stare for what feels like a long moment, until Mickey gives a low whistle. 

“Would you fuckin’ look at that,” he shakes his head incredulously at the feline. “Guess she decided to come home after all.”

“Well, good for her.” Despite the heat, they’re still leaning against each other in the dark. When Mickey looks at her, Mandy looks bone tired and world weary and still somehow inexplicably hopeful. She looks like his sister. One day, he hopes he looks the same way. Mandy smiles. “Good for us.”

 

There is rosemary by the garden gate again. The lavender blooms so fragrant and full that you can smell it for what feels like miles. Everyone knows that there is magic in the house at the end of Trumbull. Some things are as simple as that.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on tumblr @ [1angallagh3r](http://1angallagh3r.tumblr.com)


End file.
